Here for you
by AnnieVH
Summary: Martin/Victor one shots not drabbles, I guess - that 10 RANDOM SONGS challenge. Lets see how far I'll go.
1. She's got a way about her

**Title: **Here for you

**Author: **Annie2000

**Summary: **Bonnie's funeral

**Rating:** K

**Characters or Pairing: **Martin/Sam, Victor

**Notes:** you know that challenge where you listen to random song and wirte a fic while it's playing? Well, I did that. It's suppose to be 10, but I'm working my way step by step. It's a drable-ish. Also, it used to be titled "Company", but I changed it for ever so clichè "Here for you". sigh I gave it some thought, believe me, this is the best I came up with.

**Spoilers: **SHADOWS – but set before season three.

**Disclaimer:** don't own them. But yall know that.

--

_She comes to me when I'm feelin' down_

_Inspires me without a sound_

_She touches me and I get turned around_

(She's got a way about her)

Billy Joel

--

"She's very beautiful."

Martin turned to find his father standing by the door, framed by bookcases as he entered the office with slow - sad - steps. "Your lady friend, I mean." He explained.

Martin tried to smile. "She's from the office."

"You two..."

"No." He rushes to say. _Althought_... "No, we're friends. She knew aunt Bonnie from... a couple of months ago."

"Ah" Victor nodded, standing by the window, a few fet away from his son, unable of saying anything else through his own sorrow.

He took a good look at his child. His face was still wet by the tears he had shed all the way back from the cemetery, and every premature wrinkle could be seen on his face. It was the perfect picture of mourn and sadness - unfair, and almost beautiful in a cruel way.

"You love her very much, don't you?"

He glanced at his father, his cheeks turning slightly red. "I dunno, maybe."

Victor stared for a moment, between surprised and offended. "Maybe?"

Martin turned away from the window, lost for a moment and then, his face turned into clear embarrassement. "You meant... aunt Bonnie? Yes, I-I do. I love her very much."

"Who did you think?-"

"Nothing, nobody." He rushed to go back to staring out the window.

Victor's forehead frowned in confusion. Until he followed his son's focused eyes. Outside, Samantha Spade was rushing to her car, crossing the street with slow steps. Victor bit his lips not to smile - even though he found it nice to find out he still could - as Martin tried to keep his eyes from checking his father's reaction. It would be a silent admission of guilt.

Instead, he kept looking away, even when Victor passed him by, squeezing his shoulder affectionately, leaving him to his staring. Right now, he was pretty sure that was the only thing that could make his son happy.


	2. Shouldn't I be less in love with you

--

_The experts say it does not last._

_The experts say it's fleeting._

_The experts bray love fades so fast_

_Then tell me why is my heart still beating?_

Shouldn't I be less in love with you?I love you, you're perfect, now change

--

Blame the baby cam, but just because it's convenient. Martin always remembered the little baby boy, Sam's Paranoid Mama Mode was just an excuse for his mind to wonder, flashing bitter ex-fiancées, too grown to hide bellies and his father's eyes in surprise/shock/almost heart atacking/disappointed staring at him, waiting for the solution to come from him.

"Marriage." It was suppose to be a suggestion, even though the order was clear and direct.

"No." Martin whispers back, and Linda is glad, sighing relieved because he was the firsth to say it. She glances at the door - Joseph is waiting on the other side, not quite important to the equation, maybe an obstacle, depending on the way this situation would go.

Her father stands, slaming the closest table in the process - he thinks Victor's son is a coward, and Martin knows it because he voices it as loud as he can. Victor blushes, but Martin does not raise his head, unsure if he wants to know if his father agrees. And not because he was offended, but just to show he has a plan, a solution, he starts babbling in a shaky voice.

- I'll find a job-

- I'll be there-

- I'll be a good father-

- I won't let your daughter alone-

But you can't break an engagement up two months before the wedding and hope you'll be welcomed back by ex-daddy-in-law with open arms and a smile. "Thank you for knocking up my daughter, you irresponsible asshole!" is the best you'll get, and be glad.

Linda is crying to her hands on her lap and wondering about her future, the so wanted housewife life with a politician for husband and a Little League little boy. She's silent and unblamed because well behaved daughters of wealth don't share the guilt - the wayward sons of wealth, however, are suppose to say no to drinks, sex and broken condoms, so Martin learns once again he's better to shut and let the older men take charge.

When Victor gets up and pulls Mr. Larson aside, Martin knows the problem won't be over - quite the opposite - but a solution is comming.

Then he's taken to the office, and he finds out the fear he had as a child of that place and all it stood for (the endless lectures and his Future) is not completely gone. Both man stand, Victor by his desk, Martin in the center, opressed by bookcases and his father massive figure, the veins in his neck slightly red, but the face calmer as he paces away the shock. There's a plan, of course, and here it is.

Martin chockes a _no, _but Victor nods his head. "It's for the best." And the list starts.

- He'll have a family-

- He'll be happier this way-

- Single parents are not well seeing in our society-

- Their children are not well recieved-

- The scandall-

- Your family-

- Her family-

- His family-

- You won't be there for him-

- You won't do a good job like this-

And marriage actually becomes a possibility for just a second, before he remembers how unhappy he had became with Linda. Nothing like the firsth 8 months (of hateful family dinners they'd kiss away, of senators she'd despise, of sharing their secret dreams of doing something on his own and being a good mother), before she got intoxicated by Victor's world and words, and his mother's stories of a wonderful life by the man she loved and lived for. Linda wanted to live for his career - Martin wanted her to get him out of there. He called it off, and she only couldn't thank him because she wasn't suppose to.

Victor holds his shoulders, tight and reasuring. "A father must sacrifice himself for his child, Martin." And Martin is too dizzy to say anything.

Victor reppeats himself over and over again, all the lecture, all his points, keeping Martin as close as possible. Sufocating him in his arms, but keeping his voice warm and caring. Is like a torture, an interrogation, and Martin begs him to stop, but it's no good. He gives up and they walk back to the living room.

Mr. Larson is satisfied because it solves the question, Joseph smiles because he loves Linda, and Linda shakes fearing his answer, but she sighes when Victor says it's all done, even though Martin looks pale and about to faint in his arms. He says nothing.

_Coward, _he'd think almost 13 years later, staring at the baby cam. Because, after all, he was 24, young and terrified, but he should have said something. He had the chance. He had two.

He slips away from his father's house when he firsth hears the news. His baby boy is beautiful - _Andrews _is the tag on the little crib, but he pretends he does not see it. So, when Victor reaches him, not even fifteen minutes after he got to the hospital, Martin begs to tore the papers up, he changed his mind.

"It's too late."

Martin nearly yells out it's not, and none hears it because it's 4 am, the fathers are checking on the mommies or resting and the nurses are on the other side of the glass, rushing from cribs to rooms.

Victor tries to ease him and he starts to cry and beg - he actually falls on his knees - because he's the father and he wants to be there. Painfully, Victor reasons he's not the father, because if he was, he'd want the best for his baby, and that would be being raised in a normal family, a lovely home.

It rushes through Martin's mind short moments, memories of his unpresent father, even though his demanding voice was always present in Martin's head.

But he just asks: "Would you be able to do it?"

And Victor is shocked for a moment, but answers: "As much as it'd kill me."

_You should have to_, he thinks, and sees himself walking away forever. Just to see him suffer, just to see if that's true.

Instead he sobs: "He's gonna think I hate him."

But Victor is, once again and always, reasonable: "He won't know who you are."

Martin's heart breaks and he wants to stay a while longer, but his father thinks it will be easier to walk away now and think of Baby Boy Andrews no more.

But he thinks, and time can't make this easier. Martin sighes and bites his tongue, and Danny takes it the wrong way when he passes him by - "I want one too, but have faith, brother".

He knows children are smart and Ben will figure things out. And Ben still thinks he's gonna think he hates him and that he meant nothing. That's how they called him. Ben. Benny. And they moved away to Chicago to start over. Martin's mother once told him Benny was happy, and Martin said good in a way that let her know it hurt to hear it. And he wonders how much it's gonna hurt when the day comes that he'll open the door and there he'll be, wanting answers. And he's still pretty sure all his "you meant- mean everything" and "it hurt to let you go" and "I thought it was for your best" won't be enough. Nothing ever will.


	3. Haben sie gehort das deustche band

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Mit a bang_

_Mit a boom_

_Mit a bing-bang bing-bang boom_

**Haben sie gehort das deustche band* *The Producers**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Martin woke up with a slightly sored spot on his back, he heard his father's voice as he crossed the livingroom. "Morning."

"Hmm?" He rubbed his eyes as he rolled on his back to see Victor smiling ("You're still not a morning person.") and getting in the kitchen.

"Right." He yawned, still a bit lost. "Morning."

"You want Rosita to make you coffee?" his father yelled from the kitchen.

"Who?" Martin asked back, a rusty voice and still rubbing his eyes roughly, almost like a child would.

But then a large, hyspanic woman came out of the kitchen and started picking up the clothes he had thrown over a chair the night before and his eyes popped open - _wide_ open -, watching the woman walk away with his clothes, heading to the bedroom. Martin sat up and blinked, thinking if that was some sort of dream. Then he observed her making her way back to the kitchen and tried to fit her inside his head in a way that made sense. But she simply didn't, so he got up.

The scene he could see from the door would only need a loving wife and a couple of sweet kids to fit the perfect commercial for American Life: dad was sitting by the table, reading his paper, as usual, orange juice and coffee sat by his plate and the smell of bacon and eggs came from the stove, the hyspanic maid standing by with light eyes and a smile on her face as she poked around the colesterol and fat on the frying-pan.

Martin turned to his father, still confused, and Victor Fitzgerald lifted his eyes slightly. "What? The doctor said I could, once a week. I just gotta watch out for the rest of the day..."

"That's not... I..." he blinked, trying to find words. "Dad?"

"Yes, son?"

"Why is there a... Rosita in my kitchen?"

At the mention of her name, Rosita turned and smiled, sweet. Martin found the strenght to smile back as if everything was natural.

"She's my maid. Well, my NY maid." Victor replied, matter-of-factly, before turning back to the paper.

Martin nodded to Rosita and pushed his smile a bit longer, letting her know everything was fine. "Why?" He asked between shinny, smiling teeth. But Rosita turned back to the eggs and bacon and Martin could stretch his jaw.

His father said: "I don't like hotel staff, you never know where they came from. Call me crazy, but I like to keep the good, trusty people close."

"You're crazy." The newspaper was lowered and Martin rushed to add. "I mean, why is she _here_, in my appartment?"

Victor looked up and said: "She does things the way I like!" not only as if it was obvious, but letting Martin know he was tired of getting distracted from his reading. Still, the paper was casted aside when Rosita came to bring his breakfast. "Oh, my eggs." he smiled. "_Muchas gracias_, Rosita."

"Ah, _muy bien, señor _Fitzgerald!" the large woman laughed.

"Besides" he proceeded ", I don't wanna get in your way."

Martin blinked and walked to the table. "Yeah, she's great, but, uhn, dad, I already have a maid, Tina, and she does things just the way I like..."

"I know, she got here early, but I sent her back. No need to keep them both. She'll be back next week, Rosita will be here just as long as I am."

Martin blinked and swallowed a "you did what, you control freak?!" and tried to be polite. "Still, I'd feel better we didn't have another woman... re-doing things...." _your_ _way_, he did not add. "So, uhn..." he turned to the maid, trying to remember anything Danny ever taught him in spanish. "So, Rosita... _muchas gracias, pero_... _no_... needed, _no quiero_... Rosita." The woman stared back raising her eyebrows and Victor stared, slowing his chews a bit. "_Compreende? Tengo una_... Rosita, _una_... _Yo tengo mi_... Rosita, _mi_ own... maid- dad, would you help me?"

"What on Earth are you trying to tell her?"

"That I already have a maid and you'll call her when you're back in town, but for now I'd feel better if I could just keep one maid, because she knows me better. You're here just for the week, I already called Tina to come every morning to help you with anything you need. Can you tell her that?"

"Sure. Rosita!" The hyspanic woman turned to her boss. "Martin would feel better if you left while we're in his house, he is quite picky about his maids, just like his mother, but I'll call you the next time I'm in town, and of course I'll pay you for your services."

"Would you like me to finish your breakfast, sir?"

"Yes, please. And unmake the couch for Martin."

Rosita turned to leave and flashed one more pleasent smile to Martin (no hurt feelings) and Martin felt his face burn. "She speaks english."

"Yes."

He joined him at the table. "Cared to tell me that before?"

"Didn't I pay you spanish classes when you were... thirteen?" Victor calculated.

"It was money put to waist."

"Clearly. How about french?"

"Uhn, waist."

"Italian?"

"Waist."

"German?"

"_Major_ waist."

"Latin?"

"Dad, lemme short this conversation: nine lenguages, you're lucky I know how to order _burritos_." Victor shook his head and turned to his paper again.

After a moment: "Was any of the money I invested on your education good for something?"

"Swimming classes payed off."

Victor made a skeptical sound with the back of his throat. "Yes, it will be useful if you ever have to talk to a fish."

Martin bit his lips. One week. Maybe he should let Rosita stay and move himself to a hotel?


End file.
